Moving

As most people who have any connection with me and my life know, our family is moving. Moving out of the only house we have ever called home. For the past 30 years 429 McIvor Ave. has been lived in by Bert and Alice van Leeuwen, and eventually Tamara, Robyn and Matthew. This little red house has been quite faithful to us over the years. It's hard to put into words how I feel at this point. I can't help but feel like we're abandoning her after so many years of keeping us sheltered from wind, rain, snow and flood (except for that one time...). She wasn't big, but was always somehow big enough. There's something about home that defies trying to describe it. Was it somehow better than any other person's home? Probably not. But it was my home. C. S. Lewis once wrote that "no man loves his city because it is great, but because it is his."
This house is quite wrapped up in our identity as a family, probably in more ways than we realise, that's what the Bachelor of Art in me says anyways. And so moving is not just some benign, meaningless act. It breaks your heart. It's like mourning the passing of a good friend. Like a funeral in a way. A large part of life has just dropped out of it and you're left feeling a bit empty, lost. The world you knew is no longer and now everything looks strange and unfriendly.
But in the same way, after the funeral, after saying goodbye life moves on in mysterious ways. The empty places get filled again. You slowly get to know the new world, adjust to the new light.
Because, all told, I think this move is a good thing. I love our new house, love the neighbourhood. Love the new paint job. And I look forward to making this new house a home.
So in the end, I think you just have to feel the sorrow. Let it take over when it wants to, shed the tears, but don't wallow in it. Mourn, but look ahead to the new world that might be dawning through the tears.